Examining anatomy of a Sunday dinner

"God, make us thankful …" my sister and I droned in unison, hands folded piously, eyes closed tight in devotion. One or the other of us always took a peek, usually to see if anybody else was peeking.

Page H. Onorato

"God, make us thankful …" my sister and I droned in unison, hands folded piously, eyes closed tight in devotion. One or the other of us always took a peek, usually to see if anybody else was peeking."Daddy, Page was peeking during the blessing," my sister would dutifully tattle. "How do you know, Kirksey?" he asked.Not to be outfoxed, she replied, "I heard her eyelashes flutter."It was Sunday dinner at 101 W. Third Ave., a tradition followed somewhere between 1 and 2 in the afternoon in dining rooms all over our little town.There we sat, our father, Dave, at the head of the table with plates stacked in front of him, Mother at the foot. Often there were honored guests: the preacher and his wife, our grandmother, Miss Lucy and Dr. Bill from Raleigh, our school principal and teachers or, once or twice, a couple of soldier boys from Army Air Force Training Center in Greensboro.Dave was in charge of serving the meat, which he did with great swagger and aplomb. Our mom, Doots, spooned up the sides; we all passed around the bread, butter, pickles and whatever else accompanied our repast.If it was wintertime, our main course was often roast beef with Yorkshire pudding, carved paper-thin according to Dootie's specifications. Dave was generous with the gravy, for our family was sort of like that of Irma Bombeck, who said, "I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage."Mashed potatoes, peas and maybe a dollop of Harvard beets completed the menu, all of which had to be consumed before we could partake of the magnificent Boston cream pie that beckoned to me from the sideboard.Summertime brought a change: Fried chicken cooked in lard in a big black iron skillet, rice and gravy (everybody else in town probably had mashed potatoes, but Doots was from Alabama and raised by King Rice), green beans and corn, cucumbers and onions in vinegar, tossed salad with Aunt Sister's French dressing and hot biscuits replaced the roast. The dessert was often blackberry cobbler with hard sauce (made with real liquor, mind you, which somebody had to go "over the river" to Salisbury to purchase).Occasionally we'd depart from the norm: leg of lamb at Easter, ham adorned with clove and pineapple, planked shad in the springtime. The good china and real silver were fetched out for these weekly occasions and set upon snowy white linens, often embroidered by her ladyship, who also placed a tastefully arranged centerpiece of seasonal flowers in the middle of the table."I heard the mayor's going up to New York again, and taking the whole family with him," Doots commented."Hope he's not doing it on the taxpayer's dollar, even if he is on business," Dave replied, "unless he takes me with him.""I want to go, too," my sister chimed in."Remember when we went to the World's Fair in New York?" Mama Sink (grandmother) added. "We all had such a good time, even if it did rain.""I remember being so sick on the boat going up I could not hold my head up," Mother added.More conversation ensued, including accolades for us girls and our good grades at school, inquiries as to everybody's health, comments on upcoming events and compliments to the cook on the delicious meal.It was Sunday dinner down South. Folks in other parts of the world sat down to similar meals. In the northeast it was often a New England boiled dinner consisting of corned beef cooked with carrots, cabbage, turnips or rutabagas and potatoes. On the West Coast they had baked salmon with Rice-a-Roni, of course; Italian communities celebrated with "gravy" (tomato sauce) on pasta. In France, gigot d'agneau (roast lamb) was the feature, or a nice confit du canard, duck cooked in its own juices. Hispanic hombres sat down to a big platter of arroz con pollo, perhaps, or paella.Whatever happened to Sunday dinner, which is all but obsolete? For one thing, everybody, even mama, went to work. "What? I slave away at the office five days a week, shop, clean, do yard work all day Saturday, and Page wants me to spend six hours on Sunday fixing Sunday dinner? She's lost her marbles."Television with its Sunday football and golf; game pads for children old and young, the spread of fast food joints, the lure of the great outdoors, the lure of the great indoors including the couch for potato-ing, the undermining of the core family with mom, dad and children — all contributed to the demise of this tradition. Here's what could happen if Sunday dinner were reinstated. Democrats and Republicans in Congress would cooperate with one another all week long so they could be sure not to be in session Sunday and miss their best meal of the week.Health care would cease to be an issue since everybody would be happy and well, thanks to Mom's home cooking and the family get-together.The illegal alien problem would be solved. Who would want to leave home when there's paella on the table?Youngsters creating havoc on the streets would be a thing of the past — they'd all be home doing the dishes, their homework and honoring their fathers and mothers because of the moral fortitude they developed at family Sunday dinners.The budget would soon be balanced because folks would spend more money at the grocery store, thus benefiting farmers, food industry production, the transportation industry, managers, cashiers and bag boys and with the trickle-down effect, things would right themselves.But best of all about the resurrection of the Sunday dinner is, ta-da, we'd all eat fried chicken once a week again. Page H. Onorato is a retired teacher.